Worn down by life, 63-year-old Willie Copeland refuses to call 911 for her dying husband, Stan, launching herself into an unexpected coming-of-age journey.
Without Stan and his constant needs, Willie happily settles into single life. But when her son, Jonathan, expresses suspicion about that night, she runs away to Vancouver Island for a long overdue reunion with her wild high school best friend, Roxanne. Fuelled by her sudden freedom, Willie embraces a roaring, headlong journey into self-discovery. As good old-fashioned fun devolves into reckless and illegal behavior, Willie relishes in the power she has unlocked within herself. But when she finds herself holding another manās life in her hands, she quickly realizes that she must confront the real reason behind her still-blistering rageāJonathan. So, Willie must choose: does she reveal what really happened with Stanās death, knowing it may cost her Jonathan as well as her newfound autonomyāor does she make what may be her final stand by speaking up for the women in her life ā¦ and herself?
Worn down by life, 63-year-old Willie Copeland refuses to call 911 for her dying husband, Stan, launching herself into an unexpected coming-of-age journey.
Without Stan and his constant needs, Willie happily settles into single life. But when her son, Jonathan, expresses suspicion about that night, she runs away to Vancouver Island for a long overdue reunion with her wild high school best friend, Roxanne. Fuelled by her sudden freedom, Willie embraces a roaring, headlong journey into self-discovery. As good old-fashioned fun devolves into reckless and illegal behavior, Willie relishes in the power she has unlocked within herself. But when she finds herself holding another manās life in her hands, she quickly realizes that she must confront the real reason behind her still-blistering rageāJonathan. So, Willie must choose: does she reveal what really happened with Stanās death, knowing it may cost her Jonathan as well as her newfound autonomyāor does she make what may be her final stand by speaking up for the women in her life ā¦ and herself?
āREMEMBER WHEN WE first started dating and you said that you would never do my laundry?ā Stanās voice, laced with humour, rose over the volume of the television.
I snapped my teeth together, my jaw muscle flexing, and set another pair of folded grey briefs on the pile. Iād never known someone to go through so much underwear in my life. It wasnāt hardāseven days of the week, seven pairs of briefs. I eyed the pile, knowing there were double that, if not more. If Stan did his own laundry, that pile would be clipped back to a single, stiff-by-the-end-of-the-week pair in a heartbeat. Gah.
āYouāre so funny,ā I managed. His backhand gratitude had gotten old about thirty-six years ago. Just say thank you, I wanted to shout.
He released the footrest of his chair. A metallic sproing followed by a clunkāthe sound of Stanās relaxation commencing. āCāmon, Willie. You donāt have to be like that.ā He ripped open a bag of snacks.
āLike what?ā
āBitchy.ā
My head swam as a wave of vertigo came over me. I blinked hard before glancing at him. His affronted scowl was locked on the TV. I hadnāt given him what he wantedāa chirpy, appreciative response. Poor baby. I reached for a shirt and imagined hurling it in his face and storming out the front door screaming the litany of things Iād never had the guts to say as I went. Instead, I pushed back the fantasy, folding the shirt with a sigh and adding it to the heap. I forced a grin. Two could play at this game. āRemember when you never used to complain about the food I made you?ā
His scowl deepened as he stuffed a pork rind into his mouthāan apparent necessity since I hadnāt put mayonnaise in his precious mashed potatoes, and he couldnāt bear to eat them at supper earlier. Iād watched him push them around his plate, muttering, āItās not that hard to always have mayo in the fridge.ā Like it would be the end of him to have to eat them with sour cream instead. The way I liked them.
Another puffed fat curl disappeared into the abyss as he flipped the channel on the TV. Hockey to car show, back to hockey. A slight sheen glistened along his retreating hairline. Heād worked himself into a sweat gorging on those things.
I swallowed hard, fighting back the ugly thing that had lived inside of me for years, another version of me that was violent and destructive, one I barely had a handle on some days. I wanted to scratch his eyeballs out and scream and have him cower beneath me for all the times his way won over mine, for all the moments his opinion reigned supreme, for all the times he didnāt hear what I was trying to say because his own voice was the loudest one in the room. Ignoring the twist in my stomach, I sniffed and collected my work, hoisting the laundry basket onto my hip. It would be safer for everyone if I just removed myself.
His eyes followed me, his features softening. āYou sure take everything the wrong way lately.ā
I shot him a glare. I doubted that he ever considered that he said everything the wrong way.
He gave me his everyone-thinks-Iām-a-nice-guy grināa lopsided smirk that somehow made him look ten years younger and the life of the party. āThe laundry thingās a compliment. Iād be lost without you. In fact, Iām pretty sure I couldnāt survive without you.ā He coughed and crunched another pork rind.
That right there. I gripped the handle of the basket. The fact that he knew this, could admit it, but carried on the same old way, was what burned me the most. I also knew there was a dark threat to his seemingly kind words. Heād told me he couldnāt live without me the few times Iād walked out the front door when the kids were little, unable to carry the load of motherhood any longer. But even then, heād wielded the line more as a weapon than a compliment. Heād said exactly what he knew Iād need to hear to keep me in this houseānot because he appreciated what I did for him, but because it would be too much work to do any of it himself. So now, even if he didnāt mean anything by it, I would not accept his feeble attempt at flattery. Not today. I was too tired. I continued past him, retreating.
āHere comes the silent treatment,ā he muttered after me.
You started it. Just once, he could ask how my day was and care for the answer. Or better yet, he could rise from his throne and gently put his hand over mineāinsisting I sit before I collapsedāwhile he folded his own laundry. Why was I doing his laundry anyhow? He was retired, the kids were gone, I still worked. Why was this still my job? Itās not like he mowed the lawn for meāI did that too. For years, the outside of the house was his, the inside, mine. But slowly his knees got worse and trudging around the yard behind a mower or shovel became too painful, so Iād picked up his slack. I froze for a second, wondering what he actually did around here beside make work for me. After being unable to think of a single thing, I forced my legs to move again.
Stanās coughs followed me to the bedroom. I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, tears already burning down my cheeks as exhaustion settled across my shoulders. How did I get here? At sixty-three, I should have been long past this feeling of grinding through each day. I was supposed to be travelling with girlfriends and reading novel after novel and running square-dancing clubs. But even with the kids gone, I was stuck in mother-mode to the biggest child of them all. It was like quicksandāonce in, there was no getting out.
I searched for feelings of love toward him and came up empty. When had that happened? Surely there must be something or I would have left a long time ago. Wouldnāt I? What kept me tethered to this place where I had raised three beautiful children, made a home for everyone, gave up all parts of myself for othersā comfort? I sighed deeply. I didnāt even know myself well enough to think of an answer.
Stan coughed harder and cleared his throat. And again. Heād been doing this since yesterday and it was starting to drive me nuts. How hard would it be to go get himself a pack of cough drops? But we both knew that unless I threw the medicine in his face, he wouldnāt take any.
The cough was punctured by silence, then a wheeze. Is he choking? My heart thumped in panic, but the urge to jump up and run to him didnāt come. Instead, I wiped my face, crept out of the room, and peeked around the corner to check on him. He was still stuffing food in his mouth, just stopping every few seconds to touch his chest and cough. Ā Ā Ā
I went back to folding, dragging the idle chore out as long as possible. I didnāt want to go back to the living room, where only Stan and a long, lonely evening waited for me, but Jeopardy! was about to start. Our nightly eight oāclock ritual. I needed to get it together before I faced that long hour with him.
As I neared the bottom of the basket, my nerves began to settle. Stan would so love that this task calmed meāfurther proof that I was built for domesticity. I jammed his underwear in the top drawer of the dresser. He always thought he knew what was best for me.
I put the laundry basket back in the corner of the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed to check my phone. Iād felt it buzz a few times earlier from the pocket of my cardigan. I opened the text from Jonathan asking if I could pick up the kids after work tomorrow. I gripped the phone. He knew Fridays were my busiest day and Iād repeatedly asked him to find alternate arrangements if he needed me then. Itās for the kids, I chided myself, letting my lower back round out to ease the ache there. I typed back a lackluster, I guess so, hoping heād get the real message.
The second was from Roxanne asking if I had asked yet. I smiled at her commitment to me. Every so often, sheād asked if I had gotten permission from Stan to come visit her on Vancouver Island. Her requests had ramped up in the years since the kids had moved out. From my frozen existence here in Edmonton, Iād dreamed of the thaw of a beach retreat for years, and sure, I could have just packed up and left, but the fallout it would have caused was not worth it. Asking for what I truly wanted with Stan rarely was. It seemed pathetic in hindsight.
But maybe it was finally time. I steeled myself and typed out an all-caps yes. Surely by now Iād be able to go. If I pre-cooked all Stanās meals and made sure he had clean clothes to wear, gave the kids a heads up so they were available if he needed anything. I knew I had plenty of vacation banked at the store, so Ivan wouldnāt be able to say no. I deserve this. I nodded minutely to myself. I really did.
My brain was flooded with days that would follow my declaration; Stanās harsh diatribes oscillating with the cold silences. I just knew it. My eyes misted up as I deleted the message. I needed to come at this properly. The luxurious wool coat Iād splurged on five years ago came to mindāthe red had looked so striking against my black curls. But after a winter of Stanās grunting every time I put it on, I hid it in the back of the closet and went back to my old brown parka. Asking forgiveness instead of permission never worked with him.
I sat up straighter and formed a plan; Iād return to the living room in a better mood, laugh about how Stanās many charms had lured me into being his personal laundry elf, and heād smile at his victory and then Iād pounce. It would probably end with me having to strip and do the deed, but a yes would be worth it.
My head swam with the thought of having a week to myself. And if he argued that it was a lavish expense, Iād bring up the fact that heād just bought a five-hundred-dollar fishing pole without asking me first. With him being retired, technically I was the breadwinner hereāhe should be asking me for approval to buy and do things.
Once changed into my nightie, I moved my phone to the deep pocket on the side, scrunched my hair, pinched my cheeks, pasted on my non-bitchy face, and returned to the living room just as Alex Trebekās face loomed into view. Pulling a blanket over my legs, I sat in my chair. āThe laundry elfās done,ā I said, my tone deceptively cheerful. The duplicity slithered from my lips, bringing a genuine smile to my face.
Relief and victory lifted his features. He was so pathetically simpleājust thinking I was happy with the life he provided for me made him happy. He nodded to the TV, his blue eyes glittering. āReady for me to kick your ass?ā He loved nothing more than lording his imagined intelligence over mine.
Ā āYou better hope thereās no medical categories tonight.ā My ten years as a nurseāeven though long goneācame in handy once in a while.
I focused on the screen as the categories were revealed, suspicious that it was a rerun as some seemed familiar. They probably recycle categories. Stan answered the entire first round with fifteen correct to my three. He was beside himself with satisfaction.
The second round started, and Stan whooped. āWhat women want? Now thatās a loaded category.ā
For men to stop telling us to smile, to let our hair go grey, a bed to ourselves, to eat chocolate ice cream without thinking about our waistlines, to be able to go out at night without fearing rape, male birth controlā¦ My mind reeled off answers. The last thought was for Annette, whoād argued intensely in its favour since her and Jonathan were deep into a vasectomy stand-off. The heated argument at Easter dinner had resulted in strong words over who was responsible for reproduction between a married couple. Back in the day, it had been one of Stanās friends who had finally been able to guilt him into doing it because the pill had been making me sick for years. It was a favour Stan lorded over me regularly, especially when he wanted something from me. Heād tut, āSo, my going under the knife for you was for nothing?ā
A contestant asked for What Women Want for two hundred. Stan rubbed his hands together, giving me a kind smile that caused my inner seething to falter. āHereās your chance, Willie. Youāve got this.ā Maybe his love for me was real and I was just a grumpy old lady. Surely there were bigger assholes in the world than him.
Alexās soothing voice started, āSome help around the house; would it kill you to get out the Bissell bagless cannister one of these every once in a while?ā
āWhat is a vacuum cleaner,ā Stan boomed, unable to stop himself from trying to win. His eyes slid to me, gleeful he apparently beat me at my own game, missing the irony, and I scoffed at my desperate attempt to see the best in him.
One week away, that was all I wanted. That was how people survived the drudgery of life nowāplowing through the days while looking forward to that one all-inclusive trip to Mexico in February. Why couldnāt I be the same? I braced myself as the next question was uttered. āTime to exercise; perhaps a class in this discipline named for Joseph, who initially called it Contrology.ā
āWhat is Pilates,ā I muttered.
Stan shook his head. āWhat the hellā āhe coughed wetlyā āis Pilates?ā
āExercise. Something you should look into.ā I snapped my lips shut. Be nice, remember the trip.
The categories continued. Apparently, women wanted Leviās, Sleepytime tea, and time to do crossword puzzles. No wonder Iām so miserable. Iād set my goals too high. I didnāt need vacations to visit my girlfriendāaccording to Jeopardy! I just needed to lower my standards and Iād be as happy as a clam.
Commercials came on. Some advertisement for a fancy Las Vegas car restoration company. OK, now was my chance. I took a quick breath and blurted, āStan, can I go visit Roxanne?ā I hated the pathetic grovelling in my voice.
A wince passed over his face and he touched his chest. āI donāt know why you still talk to that crazy bitch.ā
Because sheās my best friend? āYou still talk to Dave.ā I held back the rest, even after what he did to me. The memory of Daveās greasy lips pressing to mine, his tongue excavating my mouth, hand gripping my breast while Stan threw back shots of whiskey across the bar still made me nauseous even twenty years later. When Iād told Stan, heād just waved me away, as he did now.
āDaveās harmless. You need to get over that.ā
Tears burned behind my eyes. How did he always do this? Turned everything around on me? On a dime, me asking to go on a trip had changed into me having to get over being assaulted. I dabbed at the corner of my eye. It was useless.
Stan coughed, wheezed, and suddenly flung out his arm, sending the lamp crashing to the floor. I flinched and whipped my head around. He was clutching his chest, his fingers clawing at his rotten orange Oilers t-shirt. His eyes swung to meāelectric blue and full of panic. The air in the room seemed to crash down, along with my stomach. Heart attack.
āWillie,ā he gasped. His hand kept working his chest as if trying to claw out the organ that was suddenly betraying him. I was frozen, unable to react or think as my body thrummed with electricity.
A wet gurgling emanated from his mouth, and the long-buried nurse in me finally moved me from my chair. I leapt in front of him and fell to the little square carpet at his feet, feeling the short fibres scrape my knees. āStan?ā I gripped the arms of his chair.
āHelp,ā he choked out, both hands now clawing at his chest and neck.
My heart galloped as I leaned across his knees and grabbed the phone from the side table where the empty bag of pork rinds lay. āIām calling 911,ā I said, my voice wobbling. I pushed the numbers, my fingers trembling so badly they hit nine-two-two. I choked and started over. Six-one-one. A low moan escaped me. Focus! Nine-oneā
āGah,ā Stan gargled, leaning forward just far enough to grab my arm.
āStan, let go, I have to call,ā I whimpered as his grip on my forearm tightened. He continued to gargle and squeeze. Louder and tighter. āOw, Stan! Please let go.ā He was going to snap my arm in half. I listed toward him to ease the crushing pain his death grip was inflicting. My vision swam before me as an old memory surfaced from the back of my braināmy father pinning my mother against a cupboard in the kitchen. He had been so mad.
I shook my head and balanced the receiver in my left hand and curled my thumb over the buttonsāthe right ones this timeāattempting to call for help one-handed. Stan clenched impossibly harder, and the pain stilled my entire bodyāincluding my thumb, which hovered over the Call button.
I felt my mind detach from my body. Hovering above, I was staring down at the two of us, at his vicious grip, at my still thumb. I remembered my motherās terrified eyes swinging to little me, urging me with a look to go hide in my bedroom so I didnāt have to watch. My breath came in shorter and shorter. A car revved on the TV and then backfired, making me jump.
I lifted my gaze and searched Stanās eyes. The blue had darkened. Steely.
āWill. Ee.ā His chest rose in staccato movements and fell heavily.
My mom wouldnāt have called.
I could not call.
I sucked in a quick breath, my nostrils flaring. Spots danced before my eyes. My thumb flinched but did not press the button. Alone. I could finally be alone. A sob crept into my throat as tears burned behind my eyes. I saw myself folding laundry that was only mine. I saw myself having a bonfire in the backyard, Stanās new fishing pole jutting from the centre. I saw myself sleeping in the centre of my bed, never to be awoken by his nasal cacophony again. I saw myself never eating mayo in my mashed potatoes. I saw myself going to Vancouver Island without having to ask for permission.
His face was contorted in pain and then twisted up in anger. I watched him watching me, knowing that he knew what I was thinking. With obvious effort, his thin lips moved, forcing out a bitter, āCunt.ā The word was as clear and sharp as a lightning bolt.
It sliced into me, and my whole body relaxed in defiance. As the receiver slipped from my hand and fell to the floor, a dark determination settled over me. If that was what he thought of me, then he could leave. The ugly thing that had lived inside me for years was ecstatic at finally being able to take over. I looked back up to him and lost myself in the lacklustre eyes of a man who, I suddenly suspected, had never truly loved me.
āWHAT HAVE I done?ā The dismay in my voice was real, but was I imagining the reverence buried beneath? Stanās grip on my arm finally relaxed enough to pull myself free and I rocked back onto my ass with a thud. I tried to stand, but my muscles were jelly, so I scootched backwardānot taking my eyes off himāuntil my back hit the far wall.
A contestant clapped loudly on the TV as he gave the right answer for final Jeopardy! The horrible, sticky clicking in Stanās throat had stopped. His face was frozen in a grotesque, tortured grimaceāhis bottom lip permanently stretched down, twisted, forever trying to pull in air. He was hideous.
Iād let my emotions get the best of me. For so many years Iād been careful with my anger, and for good reason if this was the result. My hands shook roughly, and a sharp pain tore through my chest. I gripped the front of my nightie, my fingers digging into my skin, feeling my heart thundering behind my ribs, breathing so shallow I feared I would pass out. He was gone. Whatever thoughts Iād had, whatever regret might come, it was too late. The glow of the TV played off his stilled features.
The old me had risen up and fought back. The person I was before marriage and children ground me down had re-emerged in a critical moment. I had taken control for the first time in a long time. A wicked part of me wanted to relish in the idea, but the treacherous thought ultimately revolted me. This is not who I am. My stomach tightened and I jerked forward and vomited down the front of my nightgown, filling the little lace eyelets with the white mush of the mashed potatoes Iād ruined earlier.
SECONDS, MINUTES, DAYS seemed to pass as my mind pulled up random memories: the first time I met Stan at Ezzyās and the desire ensued, when we found out I was pregnant with Tanya, how heartbroken he had been when his mother died, the dismal moment I realized he was never interested in giving me an orgasm, when I almost died of a ruptured ovarian cyst because Stan didnāt believe the pain I was in, how Roxanne had lectured me about the importance of having high standardsāwhich in her eyes, Stan did not meet. āThere had to have been some good,ā I whispered to myself. I forced my thoughts back to the first time Iād met him and afterward how heād escorted me home to my parentsā house from the bar, leaving the softest, most gentle kiss on my cheek. I remembered how, after Tanya had been born, heād held her so close to his body, tears rolling down his faceāit had been the first time Iād seen him cry.
I smiled a little, recalling how once heād figured out my favourite treatāchocolate covered almondsāhe showed up for every date with a box of them. My smile faded. Heād started giving me the side eye when I indulged in the same item years later, as if my waistline had become more important than my joy.
That was how it was with him. Every small, sweet thing heād done in the beginning eventually soured, and when I told him years later how much of an asshole my father had been, Stan had crowed about never raising his voice or hand to me. But there were other ways to maintain control.
As I now watched his body intently for any sign of life, I wondered if he too had been holding something ugly back. Simply tolerating me so his needs could be met. What else explained the grip on my arm and that foul word? Maybe the real Stan had always been there, and it was just that the wool covering my eyes had grown thinner and thinner with every trip around the sun. Before I knew it, he was more like my father than Iād ever imagined, and I was forever stuck with that. Maybe we had started with love and had grown to hate each other over the years but kept up the ruse because that was what married people didāstayed together because on some level it workedāignoring all the other crap that came with tolerating and abiding by someone else for decades. But I knew, on some deep level, Stan had benefited immensely more from this union than I ever did.
I shifted and the renewed stench of vomit made my stomach roll again. Was this somehow my fault? If I had said no the first time heād brought a bag of laundry over to the little apartment Iād shared with Roxanne in university claiming his washer was broken, would we not be here now? If I had told him to find a laundromat, would I have not set in motion his ultimate plan for having a housekeeper, a babysitter, a mother-with-benefits?
āNo,ā I said to the decaying air. Stan had to take some responsibility for getting himself here, too. If he had treated me a little better, if he had shown me an ounce of this love everyone pinned for, I wouldnāt have hesitated to call.
Breathing deeply and with focus, my jaw slowly relaxed. And then my tongue. And then my shoulders. Finally, my chest lifted in a long, slow inhale. I breathed out the heavy, black air that had filled my lungs for so many years, visualizing it latching on to Stanās departing soul. I didnāt want it anymore.
The categories continued. Apparently, women wanted Leviās, Sleepytime tea, and time to do crossword puzzles. No wonder Iām so miserable. Iād set my goals too high. I didnāt need vacations to visit my girlfriendāaccording to Jeopardy! I just needed to lower my standards and Iād be happy as a clam.
Watch What She Can Do is a delightful read, finding its place perfectly in todayās growing conversation about womenās roles, standards, and expectations. It brings forward the family womanās experience and follows Willie on her journey in rediscovering ā or, rather, remaking ā her identity outside of her family after decades as a homemaker.
Finally on her long-awaited trip to her best friend Roxanneās home in Vancouver Island, Willie juggles the thrills of being independent with the lingering guilt and frustration over the family matters she sought escape from. Nicole Brooksās writing is engaging and executes juxtaposition well: recklessness and caution; boldness and fear; old mindsets and new realizations. In this way, Willie is represented as a dynamic, multi-dimensional character. But in no way is she perfect. As she alternates between questioning and embracing what it means to empower herself and other women, she engages in thought patterns and behaviors that the readers may find questionable, even excessive. However, these drive the story forward and place further emphasis on the journey she is on. Willieās internal conflicts and moments of reflection arenāt rushed, and she is very human in going through the motions and emotions of everything that happens to and around her.
There is no lack of strong, supportive women in the novel ā from Willieās mother and daughters, Roxanne and her friends, and even other residents around the island town. It would have been nice, though, to see more supportive men as well as women who were perhaps not quite as supportive, to make the story more realistic and better balanced.
As an unexpected coming-of-age novel, Watch What She Can Do is comforting and refreshing in how it tackles self-discovery, solidarity among women, and endeavors to challenge social norms and expectations. It is an easy, entertaining read ā a solid harmony of headstrong and heartfelt. Perfect for anyone contemplating or advocating for what women truly want.